Chapter 14: Grandfather
Dax stood before the massive gates of Godfall Manor, his clothes drenched in blood—crimson stains soaking through fabric, dripping onto the stone path. His posture trembled violently, shoulders hunched, hands fidgeting with frantic energy. Panic flooded his eyes—wide, haunted, brimming with unshed tears.
"Help! Help me, please—someone!" he screamed, voice cracking with raw desperation, echoing off the obsidian walls.
High on the battlements, a guard turned sharply at the cry. His eyes widened in stunned recognition the moment they landed on the blood-stained figure below.
"Y–Young Lord…!" he shouted, voice breaking with shock and relief. "The young lord is alive!"
Chaos erupted along the walls.
Guards flooded out in a frantic rush—armor clattering, boots pounding the stone as they sprinted toward the gate. Shouts overlapped in a storm of urgency.
But amid the commotion, one figure remained unnaturally still.
A striking woman with flowing silver hair, clad in gleaming adamantite armor that hugged her form like a second skin.
She watched him with a cold, unreadable gaze—eyes sharp as drawn blades.
Then she vanished.
No sound. No blur. No trace of movement.
But this did not escape Dax's eyes.
Interesting, he thought behind the flawless mask of terror, an invisible smile forming in the depths of his mind—predatory, intrigued.
Outwardly, he continued the act without flaw—body shaking like a leaf in a storm, breath coming in ragged gasps.
The guards surrounded him instantly, strong hands supporting him on both sides—gentle yet urgent.
"Young Lord! Are you hurt?"
"Get him inside! Move!"
They rushed him through the towering obsidian gates of Godfall Manor—the ancestral home, a fortress of shadowed grandeur that loomed like a mountain carved from night.
The hallways blurred past as they escorted him with frantic care—never questioning his appearance, never doubting the fear etched into his features.
And within moments, he was led straight to the residence of his grandfather.
He was guided through the long, echoing corridor approaching the entrance to his grandfather's residence. The first thing that caught his eye were the statues.
White lions.
Magnificent. Serene.
Each one carved in a resting posture—paws crossed, heads held high with quiet dignity—lining the walkway like silent, eternal guardians. Their marble fur shimmered softly under hidden lights, as if lit from within by some inner radiance. The path they formed could only be meant for kings.
Dax slowed his steps deliberately, allowing the weight of the moment to settle over him like a cloak.
So this is your home. Such taste, he mused inwardly, a flicker of genuine appreciation cutting through his calculations.
He rummaged through the fragmented memories of the body he now inhabited—flipping through scraps and echoes like pages in a torn book.
Yet he found nothing.
The previous Dax had never once met his grandfather.
The man had lived in deep seclusion for decades—untouched by clan politics, unseen by even his own blood.
But despite that distance, his silent favor had been the only shield keeping the boy's fragile standing secure within the clan.
And now, Dax walked straight toward that mystery.
But behind his trembling façade—behind the fear and weakness he displayed so convincingly—Dax's true emotions were entirely different.
He was excited.
In his past life, his grandfather had been a titan among men—one of the few beings Dax had truly respected. A man who died protecting him, sacrificing everything amid the chaos unleashed by Dax's own cursed power.
Even now, centuries later, that debt clung to Dax's soul like an unbreakable chain.
And when he had sensed the old man's essence in this world…
When he realized the grandfather in this life was the same one he had lost…
He had been waiting for this moment ever since the thought of the House of Fall crossed his mind.
He wanted to see him.
To confirm it.
As he walked between the statues of white lions—silent sentinels watching with unblinking marble eyes—the plan he had set in motion continued to unfold exactly as he expected.
"We greet the Ancestor!"
All the guards dropped to one knee in perfect unison, voices thundering through the manor halls—reverent, unified.
All except Dax.
Reverence shone in their eyes—the kind reserved only for someone legendary, untouchable.
For even without seeing him, they felt him.
A pressure deep within the manor.
A presence that bent the air itself—heavy, ancient, warm.
Suddenly, space distorted.
Ripples spread through the corridor like heat waves over desert sand—reality folding inward with subtle grace.
From that distortion stepped a middle-aged man with long white hair cascading like fresh snow, dressed in flowing white garments that carried a faint, ancient glow. He walked with bold, deliberate steps.
Not regal.
Not oppressive.
But warm—like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
As soon as his eyes landed on Dax, all composure shattered.
In a heartbeat, he crossed the distance—faster than sight—and pulled Dax into a fierce embrace.
"My child… you have returned safely."
The man did not care about the blood soaking through his immaculate robes.
He did not care about the dirt, the wounds, or the stench clinging to his grandson.
Crimson streaks spread across the pristine white fabric like blooming roses.
But he never loosened his hold.
To him, the world could burn—as long as his cherished grandson still breathed.
That was all that mattered.
Dax followed his grandfather through the wide, echoing hallways—marble floors gleaming under soft lights, walls adorned with ancient tapestries depicting forgotten victories.
Calmly, carefully, he narrated his fabricated survival—how he endured the ordeals, how he clawed his way back from death's door.
And finally, he spoke of the person he met on his journey.
The master he had gained.
"And that master," Dax finished, voice small and hesitant, "is him."
He didn't point. He didn't hint.
He simply let the words hang in the air.
Grandfather did not show a flicker of shock.
Instead, he exhaled softly—almost relieved—and said:
"I know."
He raised a hand toward the shadows ahead.
"I see him clearly."
Micah stood concealed in the darkness, yet Grandfather's eyes pierced through it as if it were daylight.
"Such an outstanding and refined presence," the old man continued, voice warm with quiet appraisal. "Around Rank Nine… perhaps higher, if he tries."
Dax froze inwardly.
His heartbeat stumbled for half a second.
He read Micah that easily.
This man… he's as terrifying as ever.
Has he noticed something about me too?
Thoughts raced—calculations spinning like gears in overdrive, searching for the safest response.
But before he could speak, Micah stepped forward.
In a shimmer of light, he appeared directly behind Dax—posture straight, bowing his head with perfect respect.
"I greet you, Lord of the Godfall Manor," Micah said, voice deep and resonant. "I apologize for taking your child as my disciple without your permission. But I saw qualities in him—potential far beyond the ordinary. His body suits my technique perfectly."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Tell me… do you not wish for this boy's destiny to change?"
"His future was vague. In fact, it was empty—just death."
"Let me create a path to a brighter future for Dax."
Micah cut in without proper introduction—bold, direct.
Grandfather's expression sharpened as he rose from his throne-like seat.
"You enter my home without permission," he said quietly, voice steady but edged with steel, "and speak as you please—not even caring to reveal your identity. What gives you this audacity?"
He raised a hand.
The air cracked.
In a flash, Micah was hurled backward by an invisible force—powerful enough to shatter stone.
But golden wings burst open behind him mid-flight—shielding him, feathers glowing with divine light, crackling with raw power.
His half-beast, half-divine form shimmered into view—revealing the truth of his nature.
He was no ordinary man.
Grandfather's eyes narrowed.
His calculating mind turned rapidly.
This one… he's not simple.
And for Dax to have met him now…
Should I call this fate?
Slowly, Grandfather withdrew his killing intent.
The crushing aura that had filled the hall dissipated into silence—like a storm passing.
"I believe we should discuss over a drink."
He flicked his wrist.
A bottle of wine materialized in his hand—ancient, sealed with a faint divine sigil that pulsed softly.
As he uncorked it, a deep, intoxicating fragrance filled the hall—a scent older than kingdoms, sweeter than mana itself, rich with notes of forgotten epochs.
Grandfather smiled lightly—warm, genuine, inviting.